Callous
by theDeadTree
Summary: Scott wrestles with the reality of a terrible decision.


**Note/Disclaimer:** more Mass Effect Andromeda shorts, because why the hell not. Takes place after the mission to save the Moshae.

I don't own Mass Effect.

* * *

It wasn't the first time Scott found himself endlessly pacing the length of his quarters on the Tempest, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.

He knew it wouldn't be easy. Jobs like this never were. But he hadn't expected this. Hadn't expected the kett. Hadn't expected the horror that was waiting for him, lurking in that facility.

Bile welled up in his throat the instant the thought crossed his mind – the memory of watching an angara get twisted into some mindless kett slave.

Did he destroy the facility because it was _right,_ or simply because he was begged not to? Had he only done it just to rub salt in the wound? He hadn't even been in this galaxy for that long; did he really hate the kett _that_ much? He didn't know anymore. He couldn't tell. He'd been angry, confused, repulsed and horrified, all at the same time. All he'd wanted to do was hurt them. Hurt them half as much as they've hurt the angara. Hurt them because they attacked the Initiative. Hurt them because they took his father from him. Hurt them because they were sick, twisted, _evil bastards,_ who were so fucking delusional they can only see what they're doing as a good thing, as enlightenment.

But how many were being held there, in that hellhole? How many innocent people had he let die? How could he justify that? Did his reasoning mean _anything_ in wake of that fact? Did he even _care?_

Maybe he really _was_ that callous. Maybe he _was_ a monster, who lived under the illusion of being a good person. Maybe sacrifices would mean nothing, in the end. Maybe he'd end up alone, forced to wonder whether everything he did was worth it, in the end.

Jaal wasn't speaking to him. Scott couldn't blame him. Had their places been reversed, he wasn't sure he'd ever manage the same composure the angaran did. It was impressive, really, that he'd managed to go this long without sustaining a punch to the face; but all that did was make it that much more painful. He'd be able to deal with it if Jaal was angry. It'd be easier to accept if he suffered, even just a little, for it. He'd feel a little less like the total monster he knew he was.

It was all he could do to remind himself that as long as that place remained intact, the kett would just fill it up again. For all he knew, the angaran prisoners were lost already. At least this way they wouldn't lose more. He had to remind himself of that. This way, he was saving more people in the long run.

Somehow, that didn't do anything to make him feel any better. Scott wondered if he'd have felt this shit about himself if he'd saved them. He had to wonder if he'd still be here, still plagued with fear and doubt and crushing anxiety, albeit over different problems. This would come back to bite him, one way or another.

Dad wouldn't have this problem, he thought bitterly. He would've been confident and self-assured and he'd get everything right. He wouldn't let his emotions rule him. Dad would've gotten everyone out and struck a decisive blow against the kett and everyone would worship him for it.

A growl tore past his lips and his fist slammed against the wall with a jarring force that shot up his arm.

" _Dammit,"_ he hissed as he slowly sank to his knees and tears began to well up in his eyes.

That was the problem, wasn't it? He cared. He cared so _damn much._ Just like Dad. Scott knew that eventually, it'd ruin him too. It seemed the Ryder family was always doomed to that. Doomed to destruction by good intentions. Even over six centuries later, in another galaxy, he wouldn't be able to escape it. He never had.

" _Pathfinder, I am detecting a decreased level of serotonin in your system."_

Scott shook his head and didn't reply. He didn't need SAM to tell him he was depressed. He knew that.

" _Does this relate to what was witnessed in the kett facility?"_ the AI pressed.

Scott groaned quietly. "You're wired into my brain, aren't you? You tell me."

" _You were deeply affected."_

It was a fair observation, but the same could be said of anyone aboard the Tempest. Everyone had been subdued and quiet, the entire crew stewing in silent horror as things suddenly began to make sense – why the kett took so many prisoners, why they would take blood and tissue samples. A shiver went up Scott's spine as he thought about it, and he quickly pushed it out of his mind. It wasn't something he was willing to deal with. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

He wanted to talk to Jaal. He wanted desperately to explain himself, to beg for forgiveness. He wanted to bring back the old rapport that had been swiftly growing between them. He wanted to make it entirely clear that it hadn't been an easy decision, that he'd been stressed, panicked, confused, fearful, and had to think on the fly. He wanted to know, wanted everyone to know that he wasn't _that_ callous.

Scott had never thought of himself as pragmatic, and he shuddered to think what this could lead to. What he'd up doing to innocent people, the kind of collateral he'd rack up fighting the kett. He'd never believed in the ends justifying the means. How quickly that had changed.

"I'm fine, SAM," he managed hoarsely after what felt like forever.

He was sure SAM hadn't bought that lie, but no arguments were made. He was met with nothing but silence.

Scott let out a long, exhausted sigh and walked over to the bed, collapsing upon it.

It wasn't meant to be this way.

It wasn't supposed to be so hard.


End file.
